Tempest
by Katharine Faith
Summary: Bookverse. Beneath the Lord of Imladris' wisdom, strength and nobility, there lies a gentle heart torn by sorrow. Final edit complete.


**Tempest**

_By Katharine_

_Disclaimer: _The Lord of the Rings_ and all related properties are copyrights of J.R.R. Tolkien, et al. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No infringement is intended._

**Warnings: Rated G for mega-angst. Bookverse, set aboard Círdan's white ship en route to the Blessed Realm.**

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The roiling waves slapped at the prow as the great vessel cleaved their foaming crests. The Sea was astir with the strong breeze, and gusts of the same swelled the white sails and caught the silver banners of the Havens. The grey shores of Lindon, westernmost realm of Middle-earth, swiftly faded from view; and a thick mist of silver hue was drawn across the water, enfolding the white ship and all aboard—yet the haze touched them not, for such was its design that it merely encircled the vessel, but did not encroach upon its hull.

Many of the ship's occupants then turned from the white-railed stern, for the land of their long dwelling had gone from their sight. Elves they were, the noblest of all races; and most of them were of Noldorin descent, Exiles and children of Exiles, now returning to the land forsaken by their elders. Their dark hair streamed in the wind, and their grey eyes shone with joy. Now and again there appeared an Elf of golden hair, one of those descended from the House of Finarfin. Some went to the prow of the ship to await the first glimpse of the Undying Lands, while others dispersed throughout the ship to reminisce and rest ere they reached their destination.

Elrond the Half-elven remained behind. The light glinting from the Sea's crests flickered in his eyes as he stared into the churning waves below, and the shadowed depths of his gaze glistened with varying hues of grey and blue and violet. His long dark tresses waved softly about his fair face, swirling in the breeze's gentle eddies. So, too, were his morning-grey robes tugged about his slender frame. He felt the slight weight of the white gem bound to his brow, and the more familiar sense of Vilya upon his finger. The Ring of Air sang to her bearer's soul no more; she lay quiet, stilled with the destruction of the One that would have consumed her. All that remained was the rhythmic swell and plunge of the waves, and the gusting of the wind in the Elven lord's sensitive ears.

To all who passed or glanced by, Elrond appeared at ease, calmly peering into the water. None saw how his slim fingers gripped the white railing, so forcefully that his knuckles were bloodlessly pale. None perceived the taut curve of his shoulders beneath his robes, or that his spine was bowed as though with a great burden; to casual eyes he appeared merely fascinated by whatever he glimpsed in the Sea's churning deeps. Thus, scarcely a soul aboard Círdan's white ship would have presumed to intrude upon whatever musings occupied the formidable mind of the lord of Imladris.

"You look so like your father, standing there with that gem on your brow," came a murmur beside him.

Elrond jerked his gaze around, startled. Mithrandir stood to the left, his weathered hands resting on the railing beside Elrond's own. The white-robed Istar's gaze was kind. "The very image of the Mariner, I say," he added warmly.

Elrond forced himself to nod in acknowledgement, quelling the mournful knell that played through his soul. "Yes, Mithrandir," he answered, straining to maintain a level tone, "and like the Mariner, I have left my children behind, without sure hope of seeing them again." His voice rang harshly in his own ears, rough with the threat of tears. He forsook the Istar's gaze and focused on the waves once more, darkly brooding. His own words had surprised him deeply, for he was not one to readily proffer such insight into his own troubled mind. Elrond gave an inward sigh; Mithrandir's presence often affected him so. Such was the trust and respect that he held for the Istar that Elrond did not begrudge the bleak statement overly much.

Mithrandir did not reply for a long moment. Then he spoke, softly and with much concern. "I had not thought you bore any ill judgment toward your sire, Elrond."

The Half-elven sighed aloud, deeply and settlingly, dropping his gaze further to rest on the railing beneath his clenched fingers. He compelled his hands to loosen their grip. He wished that his sheet of dark hair would fall between him and the white-robed wizard at his side, giving at least the illusion of concealment, but the wind whipped the long strands back and away from his face. "I bear him no ill at all," Elrond said quietly. "My feelings regarding his choice and that of my mother were settled long ago, when I was young." He gave another heavy sigh, feeling Mithrandir's eyes piercing him. "Nay, Mithrandir, the rebuke was not meant for Eärendil."

"Then you chastise yourself unduly," the Istar told him firmly. "Your children have chosen their paths, as you and your brother once chose. Your sons are the lords of Imladris now, powerful and wise, as you have taught them to be; your daughter is Queen of Elves and Men, beloved by both kindreds. Did you not see the joy in Arwen's eyes as she spoke her vows of marriage to her beloved?"

Pain swelled in Elrond's chest, coiling tightly around his throbbing heart. His eyes fell shut. "Happiness is theirs for but a brief time, Mithrandir, and then it will give way to the wearing of the world. They will age and wither, and then loose their spirits to the doom of mortals." A shudder ran through his entire frame. "My little _Undómiel_'s light will fade, just as did that of Elros. She was never meant to taste death, Mithrandir. None of them were ever meant to…" His breathing hitched, and miserable shame burned in his stomach. He could not still the tremors racing through his muscles, no matter how fiercely he rebuked his own lack of control. "I cannot bear it, _mellon__ nimcollo_, I cannot…"

A large hand gripped Elrond's shoulder, and Mithrandir's gentle voice was filled with compassion. "Your pain is great, _silmelindë_, but your heart is strong. Many sorrows have you borne thus far, and this, perhaps, the most grievous of all; yet your grief shall not haunt you forever. The light of Valinor is soothing to the weary and broken-hearted. Many of those who were lost in years past will be restored to you upon reaching the blessed shore."

Elrond had been holding his breath in an attempt to quell the rending sob gathering in his lungs. Raw ache vibrated throughout his chest and throat, and though the sob did not escape, a note of distress fled his lips as he was compelled to release the air bursting his lungs. With the forceful exhalation came a brimming of hot liquid at his clenched eyes. "_Ai man Elbereth,_" he rasped under his breath, clutching desperately at the railing, "_nin melhíni ilye vanwa!_"

Mithrandir took hold of Elrond's shaking shoulders then, and turning the Half-elven to face him, the Istar held him upright and spoke, softly, but with authority drawn from his inmost nature—that of a Maia of the West, a spirit created by the hand of Ilúvatar long before the world was brought into being. "No, young one, your children are not lost. They are secure, loved, and happy where they are. One day you will see them again, _mellon iarello_, when the final theme of Ilúvatar is brought to fulfillment." The seeming eld wizard gathered the shuddering Elven lord in his strong arms, tucking Elrond's head against his chest in a surpassingly paternal gesture. "Peace, Elrond," Mithrandir murmured. "Peace, my friend…"

Elrond abandoned all attempts at composure and wept freely into the thick warmth of the Istar's white beard. He buried his grief-twisted visage against Mithrandir's chest, sagging with the weight of sorrow, held up only by the wizard's sturdy arms wrapped around him. After some moments, Elrond heard the Istar murmuring something about the children singing the Second Music at the End for their father's appraisal. The Half-elven almost laughed at the absurdity of such a notion, but his mirth was driven back by the bitter remembrance that he would not hear his children singing to him for ages to come. His twin sons would not lend their sweet voices in harmony to their sire's rich baritone, to the delight of all who heard; little Arwen would not soon sing a merry tune in time with Elrond's silver harp, setting the listeners to laughing with glee.

Mithrandir lowered them both to the deck, sitting with his back to the railing and clasping the weeping Elf-lord to his chest. Elrond wilted in the Istar's hold, wracked with agonized sobs that threatened to tear his lungs asunder before they had finished. He stifled the outcries as much as he was able, yet unwilling to attract the attention of the entire ship, already shamed by the notice he was certain his collapse had garnered. The raw groans grated in his throat with unfamiliar coarseness; he had not wept so since his cherished wife had fled over the Sea to escape the heartache that plagued her. That thought brought an almost violent upwelling of fresh anguish, and Elrond recoiled from it and the images it evoked.

_Forgive me, my beloved!_ he thought desolately, his mind envisioning his sweet wife, his dear Celebrían—her face awash with tears, her eyes accusing—as he told her of their children's decisions to remain in Arda. _Ai, Elbereth, forgive me…_

"She will not forgive me," Elrond heard his own voice whispering, broken and raw with grief. "_Ai,_ Mithrandir, I have failed to bring her children to her side, and she will not forgive me that…"

Mithrandir pushed the Half-elven back so as to look hard into his face, but Elrond's head remained bowed with sorrow. The Istar placed one strong finger beneath Elrond's chin and lifted the Elf's countenance to face his own, as one would a small child. "You misjudge your beloved's heart, I believe," Mithrandir said, his tone grave but flecked with his usual dry humor. "I have known Celebrían from her youth, and she will not hold against you that which you could not have altered." Mithrandir sighed and allowed Elrond to slump forward once more, cradling the grieving Elf to his chest. "Ah, Elrond, _silmelindë_, you must trust me in this. Your lady wife will grieve with you, but she will not condemn you. You will bear your sorrows together, and you will lend strength to each other."

Elrond considered Mithrandir's words, allowing them to sink deeply into his rent heart, recognizing the truth in them. A glimmer of hope flickered in the darkness of despair. As the last few shudders ran their course through the Half-elven's frame, and the diminishing gasps rattled in his quieting lungs, he thought of the shore ahead, and of all the loved ones he would meet. His wife would be there, to be sure, and also his own parents, and Ereinion Gil-galad, and scores of others lost to war and grief and Sea-longing… Delight, pure and unfettered, rose up as a salve within Elrond's soul, and he finally allowed himself to feel the joy of the coming reunions. His heart yet ached for the loss of his children, however temporary it might be; but the pain no longer strangled him, nor did it steal from him the elation of joining his kin in the Blessed Realm.

Mithrandir felt the change come over the Elf clasped to his chest, and the Istar smiled. He let Elrond gather himself up and pull away from the consoling embrace on his own, then wordlessly pressed a large white kerchief into Elrond's hand, pleased to see the renewed hope shining from behind the tears. The Half-elven murmured his thanks and began to repair what remained of his dignity. With the anguish now mostly exhausted, Elrond was keenly aware of his utter lack of decorum. He gave an annoyed sigh, and was surprised to hear Mithrandir chuckle.

"Always the one to worry about sweet dignity, eh?" the Istar remarked.

Even through eyes bleared by weeping, Elrond managed a potent glare in response. "I am somewhat unaccustomed to sobbing like a small babe, Mithrandir, and even less so in the presence of others. You will forgive my discomfiture, I am certain."

Mithrandir's smile only widened. "There's the _silmelindë_ I have known these long years, finally returned to upbraid himself for losing his composure," he said approvingly. "For you, I believe that to be a sign of a mending heart."

Elrond glanced about the deck, and was exceedingly gratified to notice that not a single individual was about. He turned his clearing gaze back to Mithrandir, who was busily combing his fingers through his beard in an attempt to dry it. Elrond nearly laughed; he was feeling rather lightheaded, almost giddy. "My apologies for such a profuse irrigation, Mithrandir," the Elf-lord said, reaching up to make sure that his own dark locks were in some sort of order.

The Istar quirked one bushy brow. "Why, Elrond Peredhil, how else do you think I compelled it to grow so long?"

Elrond gave a relaxed smile. There was truth in Mithrandir's glib jest; many a troubled and weary soul had the Istar comforted in his long years as a denizen of Arda, Elrond himself among them. "_Mellon nimcollo,_ I do thank you," Elrond said softly, meeting Mithrandir's weathered gaze with his own. "From the depths of my soul I thank you for all that you have done. I only wish that I could offer some sort of recompense, but there is naught that would suffice."

Mithrandir's smile shone brighter than did his white robes. "Ah, but _mellon__ silmelindë,_ the joy I may give to the Children I was sent to care for is my recompense." He stood, glanced up at the silvery haze yet obscuring the Sky, and his smile broadened. "We are nearing the isle! Come, you will want to catch first glimpse!"

Elrond felt a thrill of exhilaration, the first in a long time, and the force of it nearly stole his breath. He rose to his feet and fell into hurried step beside Mithrandir, who led the way to the prow. The many Elves already gathered willingly parted and allowed the Istar and the Half-elven to come to the forefront. There, they joined Galadriel, who smiled so radiantly as to blind all who looked upon her joy; and at her side was young Frodo Baggins, and his aged cousin Bilbo, the hobbits who had, at one time or another, borne the One Ring on its path to destruction; they been permitted to join the Last Riding of the Keepers of the Rings, in hope that the sweet air of Aman and the comfort of his beloved kin would serve to bring the younger Baggins the peace that had been consumed by the evil he had carried for so long. Elrond met Frodo's wide-eyed gaze with a smile, then turned his own eyes to the Sea and the curtain of grey mist to the fore of the vessel.

At length, there came the sound of distant voices raised in gladsome song; Elrond fought the urge to join them, for his wish to hear their sweet melody overpowered his desire to give voice to his own joy. A sweet fragrance rolled over the deck of Círdan's ship: a healing aroma, fresh and clean, like that of lavender or freshly bruised _athelas_. Then, of a sudden, as though the haze was but a drape to be drawn aside, the way cleared ahead, and Elrond's breath hitched in his throat as he beheld the sapphire Sky and the white shores of Tol Eressëa, and beyond, the verdant green of the Undying Lands…

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**Translations:**

_Mellon nimcollo_ "white-mantled friend"

_Silmelindë _"starlight singer"

"_Ai man Elbereth, nin melhíni ilye vanwa!_" "Oh blessed Elbereth, my beloved children are all lost (to me)!"

_Mellon iarello_ "friend of old"

**Notes:**

Elrond Angst™ is the absolute best, neh? I do so love that Elf!


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